


The Things We Cannot Say

by Leafontehwind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Experimentation, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leafontehwind/pseuds/Leafontehwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter with one Jim Moriarty has Sherlock thinking things about John that hadn't occurred to him before.</p><p>Short description but I didn't want to give too much away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a long time coming and is a WIP. Also, just to let you know, this is also my first Sherlock fic. Apparently writing firsts are a thing for me. There will be mature issues going on here, and eventual, ahem, porn. So, just keep that in mind. Also the POV will keep shifting and I'll try to keep it not so confusing.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!

This wasn’t about love. It hardly ever was in Sherlock’s experience, or rather to be more aptly put, in his observations and findings. People were flawed, weak individuals who sought out instant gratification in the absolute worst ways, often with the most unsuitable partners imaginable. He had always supposed he was different; never stooping to their level, always being above all of that. Abstaining from human interactions and relationships of any kind. He hadn’t had someone he considered a friend until John came along... Best not to think about John just now. Later.

It, this, had started out as an understood and yet unspoken agreement. He had thought that they were the same in many ways, two sides of the same coin. Brilliant, far too brilliant for the rest of the world. It was a gift as much as it was an irritating curse. This wasn’t quite based on respect, though it was something akin to it. Something that defied definition even as Sherlock deftly attempted to categorize it as best he could, at least within his own parameters. 

None of that. None of his desperate attempts to understand what it was that they were doing, the warning bells in his head going off at just how disastrous this would turn out-- None of that mattered. And, it wasn’t often that he could shut his brain off, to will himself to stop going over the facts and scenarios. Even while he was sleeping (when that rare occurrence actually took place) vivid dreams played against the insides of his eyelids, so much so that he rarely ever felt rested, that he got the sleep that was necessary. But, now... With someone who was supposed to be his enemy, with the shift of skin against skin, the feel of cruel and rough fingers tearing at his clothes... He could find himself thinking of nothing beyond this moment; beyond this.

He could see why people so often went this route, it was simpler not to think. To turn everything off for a moment in time. Granted, it must be easier for those who did not have a whole lot of brain power, ie the rest of the populace. 

All of his immense higher functioning capabilities were quite utterly thrown into the wind with what happened next. 

 

Moriarty nipped viciously at the side of an alabaster neck, knowningly leaving a mark and receiving a noise of pleasure from the other man. “Mm,” the man started, pulling his face away to look up at sharp cheekbones and half-lidded eyes. “You like that? Oooh, surprising, the Great Sherlock Holmes like pain. Best make note of that.” The way his lust marked words wafted through the air came off mocking, daring even. Testing Sherlock, challenging him to surprise him, to be...different. Better. 

Sherlock lifted a hand and threaded his fingers through Moriarty’s short hair before grasping a fistful of it and yanking it hard. Eyes widened, perhaps he did want to play. This was what made him so specifically different. More fun. It was always more fun if they played along, if they rose to the occasion. Otherwise, well... Otherwise he just got bored. Tossed them away like unwanted dolls that were too used, too old to be worth his time. And, as Moriarty could feel as his leg pressed between the consulting detective’s legs, well well well... Sherlock certainly could rise to the occasion. But, he already knew that.

A savage grin tore across his features, clearly pleased with what the other man was now doing,“There’s a good boy.” 

It was clear that he was coming undone, the carefully constructed being that was Sherlock was unraveling. Yes, and it was all due to him. He had waited for this for quite some time, bided his time and waited until the live in normal was out of the flat, waited until the tension was palatable between them and then struck. Like a marvelous predator and here was his prey. Beautiful prey with his pupils blown and pale cheeks flushed...

He was caught up in his reveling, a gleeful feeling bubbling in his chest at how far he had come in getting his hooks into the other man when lips were crushed against his. It felt more like an attack, something desperate and full of such passion that he knew had been just beneath the surface... Oh, some might have seen Sherlock as a detached genius but Jim knew better. He knew what was there. And now he was going to get to see him in a completely different way...

A hand snaked between them, deftly unbuttoning his shirt with such precision, as if it was something that had happened countless times before. He found he rather liked this side of Sherlock, though if he was being honest, there wasn’t a side of him that he hadn’t liked so far. 

Sherlock pulled back gaze turning studiously towards Moriarty’s chest as skin was revealed. His lips were red and bruised, parted slightly as he committed every single centimeter to memory. His hands, almost entirely of their own accord, pushed the fabric off of Jim’s shoulders, exposing more flesh for his eyes to rove.

He had seen naked bodies before, though most of them dead either for a case he was working on or an experiment that Molly was humoring his eccentricities. But, James Moriarty... his body was lithe and pale, not unlike his own sharp angles-- it was different. Seeing the skin revealed to him was stirring reactions low within his stomach, things that were long forgotten but familiar all the same. 

Lust. Desire. 

Sherlock hadn’t had the want to be with another person like this in... Well, in all actuality, he hadn’t felt like this for anyone in his entire life. Perhaps it went along with the spark of understanding they shared, that madness of genius from different ends of the spectrum that ran between them both. 

No more speculating and grand hypothesizing. Sherlock leaned forward and ran his tongue along James’ collarbone, tasting the salt of the skin was oddly erotic, the detectives brain tucked the information away for later use. Between kisses and licks, he guided Moriarty to lay back upon the bed, his elbows where the only thing keeping him slightly upright. Sherlock had fistfuls of the shirt in his hand, arms on either side of a narrow waist, his head dipping lower as he allowed his tongue to explore the expanse of flesh. He paused above Moriarty’s left nipple and lifted his eyes.

“Oh you're not going to do that now, are you?” The other man looked down at him with a sardonic smile curling his lips, eyes dilated ensuring Sherlock that even taking in what he was saying, he still was aroused by the situation.“How pathetically expected."

He didn’t want this to be sentimental. There was no pathetic delusions of love or declarations of commitment; this was just exactly what it was. Sex. Carnal and rough, he wanted to see that side of Sherlock even if he had to bleed him to get it. Moriarty lifted one of his arms and grasped a a handful of black curls, yanking the detectives head backward and away from his own dusky pink nipple.


	2. Breakfast for two... with an unexpected guest.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John arrives back at the flat with an uncommon surprise. Speachless doesn't begin to describe it.

John finally came home, exhaustion making his limbs ache and the bags under his eyes were clearly apparent of the fact that he had stayed out all night. The good doctor wished he could have said he was working a whirlwind case or that he had been out on a date. Hell, even down at a pub having a pint with someone he had served with would have been preferable to dealing with his sister. He loved her, dearly, but, dear god she needed to get it together. John of course meant that in the nicest way possible.

He set his keys down on the side table, weary eyes checking the normal spots in the flat where Sherlock was prone to be laying about or working on some bizarre project. “Sherlock, I’m back.” He didn’t expect a response, he hardly ever got one. Most he ever got was a dismissive question or a deresive noise. He had picked up two pastries from the shop round the corner and was very much planning on making a strong cup of tea to settle his nerves. “I got breakfast.”

His flatmate’s door opened with a soft click and John didn’t bother to turn around, just continued to switch on the electric kettle and ready two mugs. Even if sometimes Sherlock didn’t drink the tea, forgetting it was there as he got immersed in something or other. Normally, this would make one stop with the kind gesture, perhaps feeling a bit jilted or something from the effort wasted. That being said, John had to admit it was a bit second nature for him to make the other man a cup. It had started out as a politeness and just continued on from there. It was funny how little things that started out with good intentions grew to become habit, traditions of sorts. Either way, he was alright with it. He knew that Sherlock appreciated him in his own way. That was an understatement, the corner of John’s lip drew upward in a small smile, everything Sherlock did was ‘in his own way’.

“Really, John, breakfast? For me? How kind,” The voice was familiar, there weren’t many occasions that you forgot the voice of a sociopath who once strapped an explosive to your chest. His shoulders went rigid and a sort of dread crept over him. What had he done to Sherlock? Was he even here? Surely, there was something incredibly wrong here. God, just let Sherlock be okay.

Turning around, his mind wandered, thinking of where he left his gun and if he should pick up the knife two drawers away from where he was standing by the kettle. His mind was going into survival mode, darting all over the place to the few things that he could do. Eyes locked on Moriarty who sported a smile that was as unhinged as the man himself. His clothes were mussed, shirt buttoned up wrong, tie hung around his neck undone, and holding his suit jacket almost lazily over his shoulder. 

“Relax John, I’m not going to kill you,” The man tipped his head to the side in an almost thoughtful manner, “Not today anyway.” In that brief moment, it seemed that the man was debating the first few things that came to mind, all of which presumably having to do with murdering him. “Can’t do breakfast, though. Things to do, people to... Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you. BOOM!” The last word he shouted, eyes growing wider as his grin grew impossibly large. “Wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

Moriarty walked towards the door, eyes never drifting off the army doctor. He waggled his fingers before leaving the flat. John drew in a shakey breath, feeling his heart hammering within his chest. The one word that was reverberating in his head was a name, eight letters, two syllables.. Sherlock. John all but ran to the other man’s room, arms bracing themselves against the door frame as he leaned forward, eyes franticly searching for what he feared the most. Blood. A dead or dying man, feebly trying to get assistance that should have been here hours ago if he hadn’t been detained by Harry. 

His fears, the worst... well, they were all for naught. John’s eyebrows knit on his forehead and it seemed that his brain couldn’t connect the dots. It couldn’t possibly be what it looked like.... could it? Sherlock lay presumably naked in his bed, sheet draped across his middle almost out of modestly... But, there was nothing modest about the way he looked. There were marks all over his alabaster skin. Mostly scratches and bite marks, some dipping disastrously low on a sharp hipbone. John felt unexpected heat flush in his face and he cleared his throat. Startling the sleeping man. Eyes opened with a start, glancing around the room as if he expected someone else to be there. 

“Want to tell me why I just saw Moriarty let himself out of our flat looking,” John paused awkwardly, clearing his throat as if the words got stuck in there. “Well, in a state?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Sherlock, generally I think this sentence rarely ever applies to you, but clearly current events have turned my logic right on its end...” John paused for a moment, not realizing that he was gripping the door frame so tightly that his knuckles had turned bone white. He shook his head, trying to come to terms with what had just happened, at what had transpired between the two men. To just wrap his bloody mind around it... And, most importantly, just what exactly that meant. “What-what were you thinking?You didn't just... With HIM...”

Sherlock pushed himself, surely he knew that. Sometimes he’d go through entire days without eating a thing, forget to bundle up properly beyond his ever present scarf and jacket when it was below freezing out-- but, this was different. This was self-destructive at best. John cared for Sherlock, maybe more than he should, and he couldn’t just stand by and be alright with him shacking up with James Moriarty of all people. This was one thing that never occurred to him, he never thought that he would have to deal with his friend and awkward sexual situations. It just, it just wasn’t like him.

John stood up straight, letting go of the door and setting his shoulders with an air of resignation. He lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture, eyes dropping to the floor, away from the naked man."You know what, I don't want to know. I really... Really don’t.”

John wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. Well that was a lie, it was a man who tormented Sherlock, who tried to kill them... And Sherlock just went and... And...

He knew he didn’t always understand what was going through his mate's mind but... Really. This? Maybe he needed something stronger than tea. Something that might knock him straight on his rear so he could stop thinking about the things that Moriarty had done to Sherlock. He didn't just look like he had had a good one off, he looked _ravaged_. As if each mark the psychopath had left was only there to lay claim on the detective. John clenched and unclenched his hands several times as he stood in the middle of the sitting room.


	4. Chapter 4

"I thought you'd given up smoking." John said flatly, clearly annoyed at him for various reasons. Some days, Sherlock wasn't quite sure exactly which one of his apparent questionable acts had left the veterans feathers, but this time... Oh, he was quite sure what it was. A moron could deduce that.

Taking a long drag on the cigarette, Sherlock leaned his head back and allowed his eyes to close for a moment, savoring the intake of tobacco in his lungs. They were bad for his health, he knew that but it was the sensation, the feelings he got when he smoked that kept him itching for more. Sherlock, as it was known, had a highly addictive personality. Once he got a taste of something he liked, he kept at it, wanting and needing more. It was just how he was. And, now... Well, he was curious.John finally came home, exhaustion making his limbs ache and the bags under his eyes were clearly apparent of the fact that he had stayed out all night. The good doctor wished he could have said he was working a whirlwind case or that he had been out on a date. Hell, even down at a pub having a pint with someone he had served with would have been preferable to dealing with his sister. He loved her, dearly, but, dear god she needed to get it together. John of course meant that in the nicest way possible.

It wasn't that he hadn't had sex before. He had once or twice (twice, really to be precise) and he had found it mechanical and dull. Messy and awkward. He could do without it. But, that was until Moriarty had dropped by. Since that eye opening session, Sherlock had difficulties keeping his mind on tasks at hand. Mostly because he was always in close proximity with John. His friend, his flatmate... He couldn't help wondering how the doctor was in the confined space of the bedroom. He didn't think that he would be like James, no. James was always manic, which was unsurprising that it was how he was during sex. All the telling signs about John, oh, they told a story, yes. Told him of his life, what he cared about; all the important things. All... Except one. Of course, it was this mystery that was plaguing him. The one he answer he couldn't get without John's cooperation and without crossing that line.

"I thought I had given up a lot of things," As he spoke, there was a haze of smoke he had to peer through to see John typing away on his laptop. The response got little to nothing out of him and Sherlock couldn't help but to frown. Only a little. "Does it bother you?"

John let out a small huff, stroking a good twenty-four, no twenty-five keys before supplying a short answer. "No. But, second hand smoke bothers everyone. Not that I'm complaining."

Hm. Still mad. How long would this go on for? People's moods were more inconsistent then themselves. He swung his legs off the couch and moved to put out his cigarette on a dirty plate. "No, of course not."


End file.
